A Game Of Crime
by Thranduelflings
Summary: The gangs and clubs of Westeros are all pitted against each other as they fight for the iron throne of the underground. (Modern!Au, multiple pairings, rated M for future content. You'll have to forgive me for any misinformation as I just started on the books and I already watch the show. xx Rachel)
1. Chapter 1: Arya

**_Arya_**

Arya's pale skin seemed to glisten under the shining, white moon. Along the boardwalk she went, her black boots creating a clicking sound on the wood. _Click, clack, click, clack_ they went, the sound was subtle yet loud enough for her to hear over the differing noises.

She breathed in deeply and grinned at the smell of the spices and the garlic that wafted out from the nearby restaurant, _Dornish, _she thought, taking another sniff just to be sure, _Definitely Dornish. _She was seventeen now, but she looked older for her age tonight; donning an assortment of dark makeups fitted with a short black dress and her black boots. She absolutely _hated _dresses, despised them with every able fiber of her being, alas, she had to wear it. Being an assassin would be tough work if she didn't at least try to disguise herself from her usual black skinny jeans, spiked boots, and loose fitting shirt that often consisted of a place for her to hide her dagger. _Needle, _she had called it. "It's skinny just like you," Jon had said when he had gifted it to her. She shook her head at the thought of him, he was a million miles away, it seemed.

Up against the cold, metal railing she leaned, not paying any sort of attention to the suggestive looks of the men as they went past. That was another thing she hated. _Men. _The men were for Sansa, Arya couldn't have cared less about the things_. Distractions is what they are, _she thought to herself, _Sansa has her men, I have my Nymeria. Sansa has her sewing needles, I have a needle of my own._ she chuckled softly, those words were some of the same that she had told Jon.

"Where _is _he," she said aloud, suddenly becoming annoyed and impatient.

"Ma'am, would you please move," said a mans voice, she looked up at him, something about him seemed familiar, Arya couldn't put her finger on it.

"J- Jaqen?"

He grinned and looked down at her, "very well done, girl."

Arya rolled her eyes and slapped his arm gently, his grin only widened.

"Did a man keep you waiting?" Jaqen asked knowingly, chuckling and tilting his head.

"Of course a man did, idiot." She laughed and looked up at him. Arya had known Jaqen for well over six years, they had met after she had pulled him from a burning cage before the blowing up of a meth lab. That's right, even at that young age she had been subjected to the harsh realities of the underground gangs of Westeros. _How had he gotten in there? What did he do to get in there? _She often wondered and often asked, he always just waved her off.

Jaqen had shoulder length hair with the left side coloured red and the white side coloured white, he was rather thin yet he had a fair share of muscle and he was quite tall. Taller than Arya at least. His face was rather smooth looking and he had handsome features. To other women at least, Arya didn't find many men to be quite handsome. They called him _the faceless man _for many reasons, one being the fable that he could change his face -and Arya knew this to be true- and another was because it was the name of his club. It wasn't really a club, not in Arya's eyes, more of an assassin den, a headquarters, a safe house. Somewhere she could go after a mission, that was what she was sure of. She looked up to him like an older brother, a mentor, even. Jaqen had trained her and had given her three death wishes; she would choose three people she wanted dead and Jaqen would do it as quick and hidden as a shadow. Arya, of course, had used her three death wishes many a year ago.

"I have your contract, kiddo."

"I am _not _a kid. Don't piss me off, J. You wouldn't want to be poked with a _needle _would you?" she teased, poking her tongue out finally.

Jaqen grinned and ruffled her hair, it had grown, he noticed. Now reaching the middle of her back. He would've mentioned it but she would've called him an idiot for not noticing before. "Oh. I'm terrified, _kid." _He handed her a folded piece of brown paper, his grin quickly fading.

She unfurled it and looked at the name with precision, wondering exactly who he was. "_Gendry Waters._" she read aloud, her head tilted.

"He's a weapons dealer for the Crowned Stags. . ."

"T'sounds familiar. . ."

Jaqen furrowed his brow and tilted his head, "it does. . .? Well, that doesn't matter, I suppose. You just need to find him and you need to kill him."

With that Jaqen turned and before Arya could even lift her face from the page he was gone, as swift as the wind. "I'm coming for you, Gendry Waters."


	2. Chapter 2: Sansa

**_Sansa_**

_Hurry up, hurry up, hurry up, _thought Sansa, her finger tapped impatiently on the varnished wood of the steering wheel as her pale blue eyes desperately scanned the outside of the car. The street's of Flea Bottom seemed scarier at night, as if everything had an aura of danger or mystery or mischief. Flea Bottom was famous for it's pubs, no matter how run down and filthy it became it would _always _be popular.

_If he's drunk again I swear - _

Her thoughts were abruptly cut off by a loud, obnoxious shout and a tapping on the tinted window, "Sansa, my lady. Open the door, why don't you?" The man laughed drunkenly then clutched over, vomit spewing and spreading all over the old, worn pavement that was Flea Bottoms side walk.

Sansa gagged in disgust and hesitantly unlocked the door. She had half a mind to leave him there and just drive away in the car as black as night, alas, she didn't. Instead she unlocked the door and watched him climb into the car, cringing and scoffing at the smell of his wretched breath. "Joffrey you _promised _you wouldn't drink."

"It's been a long day, I don't need to hear it."

She looked at him, her mouth gaping open slightly, "Joffr-"

"_Just drive," _he said coldly, not even bothering to glance at her.

Sansa didn't like this part of him. It only seemed to expose itself when he had been drinking_. He'll change, _thought Sansa,_ I can change him._ The truth was, unfortunately, that _no one_ could change him. He was cruel, narcissistic, controlling, and, at some times, utterly disgusting. _Her prince _is what she would say to Arya,_ he's my prince and we'll marry and have beautiful blonde babies. _Arya had just rolled her eyes, "_Seven Hells," _she would say, that was years ago now.

Sansa had just turned twenty; only a few weeks after Joffrey had turned twenty-two. Sansa may've been older but she certainly didn't look it; her hair shone its usual auburn colour with the exception of the length, it was longer now, it looked better; her alabaster skin that was once flawless now donned wrinkles, "from all of Joffrey's mishaps," her mother would say. She knew he was a handful but she couldn't bring herself to leave him.

"Fine," and with that she started the engine of Joffrey's jet black mustang and began to drive slowly, making sure she wouldn't churn Joffrey's stomach any more than it already was. "Was Sandor with you?" She always found herself asking about Joffrey's body guard. Sandor Clegane had helped Sansa out of many things before and she was always incredibly grateful.

Sandor was a tall, muscly man that reached six and a half feet. Half of his face had been awfully burn by his brother, Gregor, and she sometimes found it hard to not stare at his face, he would always just scowl at her and look away. No hair ever touched the burn so there was a large patch of hair missing from that part of his head. Sansa often thought he would look quite handsome without the burns.

"Why the fuck do you care about _my _dog?"

"I- It was just a question, my prince."

"Hmph," Joffrey turned and looked out of the window, one hand hesitantly making it's way to Sansa's leg and giving it a soft, apologetic squeeze.

She shook off his hand gently anod looked at the back of his golden head quickly before looking back to the road. "Why were you here? In Flea Bottom? Don't you usually go to one of the clubs in the upper districts of Kings Landing?"

"I had business here with Uncle Jaime."

_Business, _she thought, _business with the drugs or business with the whores? _"What kind of business?"

"Royal business," he smirked and looked back over at her. That's what he had always called it, his "Royal business." Joffrey Baratheon was the supposed prince of the underground, he was completely and utterly relentless. His father, Robert Baratheon, was the king of the underground; the drugs, the weapons, the shipping yards. Everything. He owned it all.

Sansa rolled her eyes and continued to drive. "what do you do in your 'royal business'?"

Her remark sent Joffrey chuckling as he continued to watch the blurring sights outside of the window. "We're merging the Tyrells with the Baratheons," he said it almost shamelessly and Sansa knew that there would be something else, "I'm to marry Margaery."

She ignored the drifting sound of his voice as he fell asleep and continued to focus on the road, not once stopping to wipe away her tears.

**(A/N: the character entry time is non-canon, I'll just say that now. Anyways, I think I'll definitely be continuing with this fiction. Reviews, reads and suggestions always welcome. xx Rachel.)**


	3. Chapter 3: Eddard

**(A/N: Sorry I haven't been writing for a while. My exams just finished last week and I've been putting off everything until I had gotten my test results back and I finally have so woo.)**

_**Eddard**_

He paced around the chamber with his arms crossed behind his back, each man at the table was eyeing him with suspicion. There was something different today. Very different. "The small council" is what they called themselves, they managed small manners as mentioned in the name. Robert would entrust them with small matters as he himself was busy. "The Lords of small matters," as Petyr Baelish put it.

"Men of the small council," said Eddard, he was the Hand of the King now, he was also the kings proxy when he was absent or "busy," all his supposed business was was drinking and whoring.

"Hand," said Varys, he was the spider of the room, never to be trusted.

"My Lord," sneered Petyr Baelish in his usual snark tone.

Lord Renly raised a hand with a warm smile and a kind chuckle, "Ned... It's been too long."

"Indeed it has," said Ned with a smile.

Lastly came the mob doctor, or Grand Maester, Pycelle. He was an aged man that wore a thick grey cloak, a large, heavy, silver chain hung around his neck. He had served the former "king" Aerys of the underground and had been there for the rise, and fall, of his "kingdom."

"Eddard," said the old man, "it's a wondrous thing to see you here, to see you in Kingslanding, besides us, besides your king."

Ned huffed and waved curtly at the man giving a small, stressed smile. "Grand Maester... It is good to be here."

He had arrived in Kingslanding a month before and only now was he beginning to get settled. This day -of all days- had been particularly stressful, Ned was just thankful that the girls were gone. Arya had been of wandering, probably starting fights or playing in the mud, and Sansa was... Somewhere, probably with her boyfriend, Joffrey; Ned didn't like him that much.

Only now were preparations for the supposed Tourney of the Hand being set, "It's the kings gift to you, my Hand," said every member of the council, they all gave him a head ache.

"About the Hand's tourney...," said one of them.

"The Kings tourney, the Hand wants no part of it, that I can assure you," replied Ned, a deep crease forming in his brow.

The Hands tourney... The very thought of it made Ned chuckle. Robert apparently thought it a good thing to have an illegal poker tourney held in your honour. Ned, on the other hand, thought only bad things about it.

One by one they sighed until Ned looked at Petyr Baelish, not only one of the spiders, but also the treasurer. "How much will this tourney set us back?"

"40,000 gold dragons for first place, 20,000 for second, another 20,000 for third and finally, 10,000 gold dragons for the sod that comes fourth," Baelish chuckled, the lines in Ned's brow increased.

"Can we afford such a thing?" Asked Ned.

"We will have to borrow from the Lannisters, Hand, they will surely accommodate..."

"How much do we owe them?"

Petyr Baelish took in a deep breath and looked at Eddard, "3 million g-," Ned had cut him off, sending Petyr back deep into his seat.

"Are you telling me the crown is 3 million in debt?!"

"I'm telling you we are 6 million in debt," said Baelish.

"How could you let this happen?!"

"My Lord," cut in Varys, "things do cost money and we all do know how much Robert likes his things."

This made Renly chuckle his deep chuckle, "oh, yes, my brother loves _many _things..."

Ned was becoming frustrated now, very, very frustrated. All Starks were like that; quick temper, slow minds. Finally, Ned stepped back from the table, fuming, "if you gentleman will excuse me."

"Where are you going, Hand?" Asked Pycelle, he had been sitting there this hole time, watching with silence.

"To my room," said Eddard, "I'm too tired for this."

Ned fumed out of the door and the council watched him go, Petyr had a smirk on his face, a rather large one, and the rest of the council was gathering their books and assorted things that had been taken into the chamber. Ned had finally arrived at his room, no, it was more of a tower, really, yes, a tower. He walked in quickly, slumping down on his bed, and be knew, oh, he knew, that this was going to be a very long while serving as the Hand.

**(I'm very sorry for any lack of quality in this story but as I've said in previous author notes, I'm just not up to it and I'm not feeling well mentally or physically, I will, however, be continuing with this story. Reads and reviews always welcome!** **xx Rachel.)**


	4. Chapter 4: Daenerys

_**Daenerys**_

She stood over the large, steaming, welcoming tub. Daenerys took in a deep breath and looked down at the water, it smelt of lilac and looked of lilac and the lilac of her eyes seemed lost in the water, the entire room was donned with a warming, purple glow.

"Hm," is all she seemed to say as the women around her undid her hair and placed a towel near the tub. There was a knock at the door and before Daenerys could even turn properly her brother Viserys was already in the room.

"Sister..." He said, approaching her. Viserys was her only living brother and, as far as she knew, the only family she had left.

"Viserys," she took a small step backward, in turn, he took a small step forward.

"Today you will be _perfect, _is that understood? You wouldn't want to wake the dragon, would you?" that's what he always said, her brother had a furious, raging temper. She had witnessed it several times in the treatment of his gang members.

The place they were staying now was a club safe house run by a man named Ilyrio. He was a large, round man with a pointed yellow beard and he had very fat fingers; each one was donned with a shining ring. He often wore cloaks, that were, of course, used to hide his weapons.

He had been nothing but kind to them over the past few months. Viserys' gang had lost some members during his crusade to return home to Westeros and regain his rightful throne of the underground kingdom that was nicknamed The Seven. "The people of underground crime are sewing banners, sister," said Viserys, "they're decorated with dragons on a black field. They await us. We do, after all, rule the underground. Rule the crime." There had always been a dark, horrid gleaming of suggested madness in his eyes when he spoke of it.

Daenerys nodded as she looked up at him and as he looked down at her, his hands reached to each of her shoulders and violently clasped each strap of the see through gown that she was wearing. "Let me look at you," he said softly.

He pulled down her dress, slowly at first, but then with some kind of... Hunger. The light, lilac gown shifted to the ground as if it were a feather and she was left standing there, naked, her brothers piercing eyes running over her.

"You have a woman's body now," he said as his thumb lightly caressed one breast as the other ran down her neck and to her collarbone.

She nodded.

"Stand straight, no man will want you if you slouch," he reached one hand around her and to the small of her back before running it up to the middle of her back, he straightened it.

Ah, yes, slouching, she thought. Today was also the day she was to be sold, that's right, sold. Sold to a man of the most vicious, most vile, most skilled clan; the Dothraki. It would seem that the throne of The Seven was more important to Viserys than his own sister, 'twas a horrid thought.

"Viserys... What if I don't want to be wed to this man?" Dany spoke softly, hiding the fear in her voice.

"_What did you say?" _The ticking point, she had woken the dragon.

"It's just-"

Before she could speak her brothers nail had dug into her bare breast and her words were replaced with shrieks and cries of pain.

"You will do as I say, dear sister," spat Viserys. His voice like acid.

Once again she nodded, blinking away tears, before pulling away from him.

He ran his hand down his face before walking towards the door, a sort of fuming rage building up. "Bathe, be dressed, _don't _make me come back." The door opened and as quickly as he had come, Viserys was gone.

Dany looked back at the steaming pile of water at the tub beneath her feet and took a step in. The burning heat that would usually have some horrid, burning effect on anyone else had left not even a mark on her skin.

The women that continued to prepare things stared at her in shock as she walked into the water, "no! It is too hot!" They had shouted, Daenerys didn't listen though, she just kept going deeper and deeper into the boiling water until finally her body was enveloped in the heat. She leant her head back as the women brushed and cleaned her hair and she knew that this would be a long, gruelling quest for the throne.


	5. Chapter 5: Jon

_**Jon**_

The road to the Wall had been long, treacherous, hard going, and somehow lightened with the presence of the dwarf, Tyrion Lannister. The Wall, on it's own, was cold, desolate, and held all of the prisoners that could've ever been associated with the Seven... The _underground _Seven. In there were some of the people that the crime lords would associate with; rapers, thieves, drug mules, weapon specialists; if you could name one, they were most likely there.

_"Why are you going to the Wall?" Asked Tyrion Lannister once during the long journey. "There is no honour to be sought at the wall. The rapers prefer the gelding and the thieves'd rather have their hands chopped off, and here you stand, coming wilfully."_

_"Honour," Jon Snow had said in a tone as cold as the north, "honour doesn't exist for bastards."_

_"You didn't answer my question," remarked Tyrion with a large, toxic grin. "Why're you here, bastard?"_

_He hadn't answered. After that he had just turned and looked out of the window and watched inaudibly as the sights blurred and twisted outside of the window. Did he have an answer? Would he ever have an answer? It was, after all, a hard question. Why was he going to the wall? _

_He had continued to look outside the window in silence, and Tyrion Lannisters chuckles were the last thing he heard before he had fell asleep. _

* * *

He had arrived at the wall after that and the first few days had been _horrid. _The men were put through training where they were taught their hand-to-hand combat, their techniques, and wielding weapons. Guns among them.

Jon was the fines of the group. They were training with sticks. Yes. Sticks. And even then Jon had disarmed and temporarily neutralised the attacking men. He was an excellent fighter, his head, however, was growing with self pride.

The morning had begun a new, and the Commander was calling loudly from the yard. Jon, among others, had stepped out into the cold, northern air. They descended the steps and gone through the arches of the training ground, the Commander still booming.

"Come on, ladies. It's time to train." He repeated. Jon rolling his eyes each time.

"Ol' bastard," said one of the boys. Pip was his name, remembered Jon. He was a scrawny man, barely out of his teens... Around Jon's age... Maybe older. He had large ears and a crooked smile, his head stood on a thin neck and that thin neck connected to an even thinner body. Not a man built for the Nights Watch.

The Commander had dismissed it. His own screams were probably too loud for him to hear.

"Form an orderly queue, ladies," sneered the Commander as the boys formed a straight line. They were much like sheep.

The Commander had selected two people at random each time and they would fight, once again, with sticks. Jon had been watching for near thirty minutes until his name was called.

"Jon. Grenn," said the Commander as he scanned the crowd of the boys and men for the ones that hadn't been already fighting.

Grenn, thought Jon, easy competition.

The two boys stood in the middle of the ring that their fellow soon-to-be Nights Watchmen had formed around each sparring pair. There wasn't tension, just a violent aura. Grenn was thrown his stick and caught it with a loud cheer, the boys around him laughing and cheering, too. Jon's, however, was thrown to the ground. He wasn't liked much at all.

They were circling each other next. Jon's eyes narrowing in concentration. Grenn swung, clumsily, all his strength going into one blow. Jon had matched him, spun, and ended up behind him. Jon had swung then and hit Grenn in the back, Grenn falling to the ground soon after. He had smirked triumphantly and held the stick high above his head, bringing it down on Grenn in one swift move. Grenn's eyes widened and he rolled, Jon's swing missing miserably.

The fighting had gone on for sometime until Jon had defeated Grenn in smooth time. The rest of the boys had fought and won and lost until training was over for the day. The glares Jon received on the way out of the yard had told him that it would be a long, long time until he had found someone that liked him. And that's what Jon despised.


End file.
